Daffodils
by redrachxo
Summary: 'She didn't look frightened or even surprised. Just disappointed. She told me not to blame myself.' An exploration of Sylvie's thoughts and feelings as she realises that her lover has reverted back to his most vicious ways. One-shot. Hal/Sylvie. Please R&R. xo


_**Inspired by Hal's words in Series 5, Episode 4. My first foray into the realms of Being Human fanfiction... I generally write only for Young Dracula but this fic idea simply refused to go away. **_

_**I've referred to Hal as Harry in this fic as I think he may have used this name in the past. **_

_**I hope you will enjoy! **_

_**xo **_

**Daffodils**

The screams were coming from the ground floor now. It appeared that he was working his way up through the house, floor by floor, room by room. Even in this form, her darling Harry was methodical. She could easily make a run for it. It wasn't as if she couldn't shimmy her way down the walls, a jutting stone here, a window ledge there... Oh, she was really quite adept at such unladylike pursuits. Harry would make sure to give her enough time to flee. Not to be merciful of course; he had no actual desire for her to escape, what he truly wanted was for her to hear the fear in her servants' voices as he butchered them, one after another, without the slightest regard for human life. He wanted her to know what awaited her, the pain and degradation that he would inflict upon the woman that had kept him clean and blood-free for much too long.

As another scream echoed down the corridors, Sylvie closed her eyes. She took a deep, shuddering breath and released it slowly as she came to a decision. Opening her eyes, she gazed down at the gardens below. It was her favourite season – Spring. The garden was just beginning to come to life, flowers slowly budding, shoots of green poking their heads tentatively out of the soil. Her patch of the garden, the patch that Thompson had given over so begrudgingly, was awash with shades of yellow. Daffodils; such a common, little flower but how she loved them. She loved the boldness of their colour, the jaunty angle of their heads and perhaps most of all the way in which they signified that the darkness of winter was almost at an end. He had helped her plant the bulbs. Strong fingers covered in dirt, warm brown eyes full of laughter as he mocked her unsophisticated taste in flowers. It had been just one of the many tasks and activities they had undertaken to keep Harry's mind off his addiction.

Much to Sylvie's surprise, her eyes were prickling with tears. With another shaky breath, she moved away from the window and away from the temptation to run. Walking slowly, with measured steps towards their bed, she paused only to trail her fingers lightly across the items on their dressing table. A hairbrush that he had used just this morning, the bottle of perfume he had purchased for her in Paris, the music programme from that concert they had attended last week. Items which all hinted at the happy and fulfilling life that they had shared. Her hand hovered hesitantly over the rosary beads, a gift from the most religious of her brothers, a small token of his affection for her. The religious symbol would buy her some time, it would cause some, if slightly limited, pain to Harry. She pulled her hand back. She would _not_ run. She would _not_ fight.

Settling herself down on the bed, Sylvie steeled herself for the inevitable. Harry had told her what he was like, he had told her that he was no good, that he was the most barbaric of murderers, that there was nothing redeemable in him. A wry smile tugged at the corners of Sylvie's lips. Of course, she had refused to believe him. Of course, she had fought for him, pursued him, seduced him. He had her in his thrall from the moment he stepped into that ballroom and no matter what happened next, she would always be glad of it. Her only regret was that others had been dragged into this, the innocent men and women who had worked in her household. She had tried to warn them discreetly of Lord Yorke's peculiar 'turns'...

Her hands tightened around the sheets of their bed as yet another wail penetrated through the walls. He was getting closer. She stared down unseeingly at the material clenched in her fingers. They had lain naked between these sheets just a couple of hours ago, his body had stayed wrapped around hers in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He had been relaxed, happy, that divine mouth of his turned upwards in a rare smile. Her heart ached with the pain of her love for him, it ached with unbearable sorrow for the man that he would become, for the desperation and despair that he would feel afterwards. Maybe not today, maybe not for another century, but eventually her darling Harry would fight back against this bloodlust and he would win. Then the guilt and the blame and the self-loathing would return, those emotions would slowly eat away at him, destroying him from the inside out until he eventually reverted once again. The least she could do was to be strong, to make sure that his memories of her were not ones of tears and pleading, that he could look back and remember the sweetness of their love just as much as he would remember her death.

As silence filled the house, Sylvie forced herself to let go of the sheets, to lift her head up high, to try and suppress the way her body was trembling. She tried to remember everything that her governess had taught her about maintaining a facade of serenity and calm. She heard heavy footsteps outside the room, the carefully oiled hinges ensuring that the door didn't make so much as the tiniest of creaks as it was pushed open. Defiantly, Sylvie met the gaze of the man who had just entered their bedroom. It was like a punch to her gut to observe how much he looked like her Harry and yet wasn't him. This man, for all his masculine beauty, his dark eyes, his full lips, his lean body, this man was a stranger to her. What unnerved her most was not the dark red liquid trickling down his chin or the splatters of physical matter across his usually immaculate clothing, it was the arrogance written across his features, the predatory manner in which he moved towards her. This creature was so very far removed from the man who had touched her so timidly, so shyly when they made love for the first time. Back then, he had considered her to be made of the most fragile glass, something so precious and breakable that he had been afraid of hurting her. The creature who was striding towards her had no such thoughts, no such fears. All it wanted to do was to destroy her. Even if she had ran, he would have hunted her down to the very end of the world just to have this moment.

"You shouldn't blame yourself." Sylvie was surprised at how steady her voice sounded even to her. She rose gracefully to her feet and took her final steps towards him. She refused to let herself flinch away from the hatred in his eyes. Somehow, deep inside, her Harry was still there, these words couldn't save her life but perhaps one day they would save him from himself. "I always knew the risk that I was taking. Perhaps, it was foolish of me to think that I could change you-"

"Yes," The word was almost a hiss, it sounded strange and unnatural coming from his beautiful mouth. "It was." As he threw back his head and laughed, Sylvie realised suddenly that she would never get to tell him that it had all been worth it.


End file.
